


That's the Way it Falls

by Wishme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cooking, Feelings, M/M, adorable idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:50:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wishme/pseuds/Wishme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean tries to teach Castiel to cook. Angst ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's the Way it Falls

It takes a few days for Dean to get used to Cas showing up in the kitchen most mornings, coffee mug in hand, sitting silently at the table, staring as always. After the first two, Dean startsleaving a cup of his favorite chicory blend coffee on the table. “au lait of course _cher_ ”, he drawls in an exaggeration of Benny's accent the first time Cas asks about it. The hunter gets used to the way Cas mindlessly hums into his mug while watching Dean chop or stir or whatever. He’s pretty used to the guy staring by now.

This particular morning Cas arrives at the kitchen and picks up his mug of coffee, padding over to hover at Deans elbow as he chops. The knife slides smoothly into the scallion, a rhythmic even movement. As much as Dean enjoys eating, this is his favorite part: the prep. The repetitive movements are meditative, each small set of tasks built into each other to create a whole, more than just the sum of its parts. It’s symphonic in a way, soothes him the way he'd never let Sam know the Stravinsky 45's did at night. The sense of accomplishment that glows in Dean’s chest after a truly successful meal rivals that of a completed hunt. Hunts are work, _this_ is bone-deep pleasure. Finished, he wipes the blade clean and offers it handle first to the angel at his elbow.

Cas's eyes widen over the edge of his mug. "Dean?"

Dean gestures with the knife handle, "If you're going to hover, I’m going to put you to work. Your turn."

The angel’s brow lowers, "No, thank you. I prefer to watch."

"Yes, we know that's your favorite hobby, buddy. But my kitchen, my rules. Today you help." Dean reaches out and snags the mug out of Cas’s hands, setting it on the counter before corralling his friend to the cutting board. Cas relents with an exasperated huff, knowing better than to argue with Dean in one of his moods. He lines up the blade with the edge of the scallion and begins to cut, matching the slices Dean had pushed to the side. As he nears the edge of the white, Dean places his hand on the small of Cas’s back, startling him to a stop. Dean reaches around to curl the fingertips of Cas’s left hand under just enough so that they rested, protected, holding the scallion down firmly. Dean winks, “No ER visits today, OK? You’re doing great.”

Dean turns to gather the rest of the ingredients, leaving Cas’s back oddly cold. Cas shrugs the feeling off and quickly finishes chopping, wiping the blade down as Dean had and reaching for his coffee. Before he can grab it, the hunter slides up and shoves him with his hip, “Down, boy. There’s more to do,” and drops a carton of eggs into Cas’s hands. “You get to learn about separating eggs.”

Dean shows the angel how to carefully crack the shell (after Cas obliterates one by slamming it against the counter) and how to pour the white (“But it’s clear, Dean?”) through his fingers to separate it from the yolk. Cas successfully separates the next one, dutifully sliding it into the bowl Dean offers, but after ruining two more eggs by squeezing the yolks just a bit too hard, sending egg all over his front, Cas is done. “Is this really necessary? I don’t require sustenance. What purpose does this serve? I don’t understand why you’re doing this to me,” he snaps, exasperated, glaring at his mug which continues to sit on the wrong side of Dean, now cold.

Dean stiffens beside him, egg still on his hands. He’s silent a moment before gritting out "Sorry to have bothered you." He takes the bowl of mangled eggs from in front of Cas, setting it in the sink and wipes his hands on his jeans. Dean returnes to the last four eggs, efficiently cracking and separating them. He looks up at Cas across the counter, face carefully blank,"Did you need something? I'm kind of busy here," turning his back on Cas and stalking across the kitchen. He doesn’t seem to notice when Cas leaves a few moments later.

Cas pads down to his room, confused. He rubs his palm against his chest where a deep ache has erupted. Stripping off his soiled shirt he pokes through his shirt drawer, hand unerringly finding his favorite shirt, well-worn and stolen from Dean, with "The Clash" scrawled across it, a huge hole across the left armpit. He stares at it and puzzles over the scene in the kitchen. Dean knows well that Castiel doesn’t eat, why would be try to make him cook? It makes no sense. And it was so messy and unorganized--eggs are unpleasant on bare skin and dried on fabric. Cas shudders. Was Dean making fun of him? Pulling a prank like he often did on Sam, to laugh at later, snickering over Cas's failure? His cheeks heat with embarrassment. Why would Dean do that?

"He wouldn't," a small voice suggests.

The angel pauses, remembering the hand Dean had placed on his back, the care with which he'd taught Cas to protect his fingertips and rock the knife back and forth through the flesh of the onion; the small smile he had offered when Cas had gotten the egg correctly. Cas thinks back to the other times they’d been in the kitchen, the stories Dean shared about food he liked, cooking for Sam in motel rooms across the country, the unending stream of diners that served as the only dining table and “normal” family time the Winchesters had growing up. Cas remembers Dean’s sure movements, the peace that seemed to settle in his bones only in this space, his words less harsh, his tone buoyant, tripping over memories he seemed to have put away, now dusting them off for the first time. He pictures Dean’s face when Sam mentions a particularly good meal or asking Dean what vegetable they have that night ( “kohlrabi and you’ll like it.”), how he settles into his food only after making sure both Sam and Cas were set.

“Shit,” Cas says to the t-shirt before pulling it on and heading right back to the kitchen.

Dean is where Cas left him, his back to the door. Next to him containers of spices and flour, Dean busy with the handmixer cranked up high. The angel pauses in the door and then slides forward, coming up beside Dean when the mixer turns off. Dean says nothing, just sets the mixer down and grabs the saucepan off the stove. Quietly Cas ventures, “Why is it called a teaspoon?”

Dean huffs out a laugh, “You got me.”

They both look at the counter, silent for a few heartbeats. Cas breaks first. “What can I do?”

Dean looks up at him, eyebrow cocked, “You’re staying?”  
Cas nods.  
Dean inhales, “Grate the cheese?”

“Okay,” Cas looks over. “Which one?”

Dean laughs and hands him one of the three blocks sitting on the counter, “This one is gruyere. It melts well, so it goes in the pot with the bechamel sauce. The others are garnish.” Cas nods again, decisively, and Dean continues on down the line of ingredients, explaining the plan.

The next half hour results in Cas nearly pouring the whole thing on the floor, getting half of his face covered in flour, and discovering that “cream of tartar” isn’t cream at all. Dean salvages the batter, showing Cas how to fold everything into the fluffy beaten egg whites, and slides the ramekin to the oven. They lean back against the counter, watching the timer start, elbows bumping together. Cas angles closer, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Dean slides his arm back around Cas, leaning into him and smiling down at the top of the angel’s head, “Yeah, anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> The recipe the boys are following can be found here: http://ladyberds-kitchen.blogspot.com/2013/04/salt-lick-green-onion-and-cheese-souffle.html


End file.
